Erika Lojko, POQC
People say, “You should do advance care planning in case you get hit by a bus.” In our case, it was a motorcycle. My husband, David, was 36. We were building a life—raising our son, planning trips we hadn’t taken yet. Dying was not on the agenda. Then one ordinary day turned catastrophic, and everything changed.
Here’s the part people don’t expect: David and I had talked. We were those people—the ones who had the “what if” conversations. Half joking. Half serious. I knew what mattered to him. I knew what he would want—and what he would never want—if he couldn’t speak for himself. That knowledge guided every decision I made at the end of his life.
What we didn’t have was paperwork. No forms. No signatures. No official document saying, “This is David’s voice—and Erika is empowered to speak it.” And that distinction matters. Because knowing someone’s wishes and being legally empowered to honor them are not the same thing.
As David entered hospice, I wasn’t just a grieving wife. I became a referee in a family courtroom I never asked to enter. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was certain they knew what David “would have wanted.” Emotions were raw. Grief was loud. Anger was louder.
I was called a murderer. I was cut off. And my young son lost an entire side of his family overnight. All because nothing was written down.
I understand why people avoid advance care planning. It feels uncomfortable. Maybe it feels morbid. Like tempting fate. But signing a form is far easier than standing in a hospital hallway being told you are killing the person you love most.
Accidents don’t wait. They don’t care how young you are or how healthy you feel. David was 36. Healthy. Strong. Alive. Until he wasn’t.
One year later, I was diagnosed with Stage 3C triple negative breast cancer. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I designated an advocate. I made my wishes clear AND I made them official. Written, signed, documented. Because I learned the hard way that love isn’t always enough.
Advance care planning isn’t about giving up. It’s about clarity. Protection. And kindness to the people who will be left to make impossible decisions. It spares them from guessing. From arguing. From guilt. From fractures that may never heal.
So, if you’re waiting for the “right time,” here it is: Before the bus. Before the motorcycle. Before the diagnosis. Do it while you can still talk about it. Do it while it feels hypothetical. Do it so the people who love you never have to wonder if they did the right thing.
Because the real crisis isn’t the paperwork. The real crisis is not having it.